The Attic
by Rubidia
Summary: When Emily is kicked out of her attic, things go haywire. And a haywire Haunted Mansion is the last thing anyone needs. Happy Halloween, everybody!


**A/N: This is my Halloween treat for everyone! Happy Halloween!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Disney.**

* * *

A gust of wind swept in through the cracked window of the attic, rustling the already wild hair of a young woman. She stood, adorned with a tattered gown of white silk, a veil masking her face.

She sighed dreamily, then skipped over to the window, leaned out towards the graveyard below, then started to vocalize:

"Ahh-Ahh-Ahhhha!" A single dove fluttered over and perched upon her outstretched hand. She quickly stuffed it into the many folds of white satin and lace of her dress. A dainty teacup sailed through the open window, rushing through her head, and landing with a crash somewhere behind her. She smiled lovingly and leaned out the window gracefully.

"WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY, EMILY?!!!" A groggy voice pierced the early morning air, "WE'RE TRYING TO SLEEP DOWN HERE, AND YOU KEEP VOCALIZING, OR WHATEVER THE HECK YOU'RE DOING UP THERE!!!"

"No," she whispered vaguely, humming a little ditty to herself.

"WHY NOT?!!" was the reply.

"Well, because you're being louder now than I was to begin with!" she stated, with an 'isn't-it-obvious' air.

"THAT'S BESIDE THE POINT!!!"

"No, it really isn't. And, for another thing, you're one of the opera singers, aren't you?"

"YES!"

"Well, you do more singing then me!

"YES, BUT NOT AT TWO AM!"

"Maybe you should learn to be nocturnal," she said, as if this settled everything completely.

"MAYBE YOU SHOULD LEARN TO NOT KIDNAP INNOCENT DOVES AT UNGODLY HOURS! BY THE WAY, WHAT DO YOU DO WITH THEM ANYWAYS?!!"

"Nothing you can prove!" she cried, a little too hastily.

"WHATEVER!! JUST SHUT UP!!!"

"No, _you_ shut up!"

"NO, YOU!"

"No, you!"

"YOU!"

"You!"

"YOU!"

"You!"

"YOU!"

"You!"

"ME!"

"Yes, you!"

"ALL RIGHT!"

"Okay!"

"FINE!"

"Fine!"

"GOOD DAY, MA'AM!"

"Good day!"

* * *

A knock sounded on the front door of Gracey Manor. George ran to answer it, and it opened upon a woman dressed all in white, clutching an axe in front of her, which she hastily hid behind her back. She stepped aside to reveal a skeletal man, who was hunched over, clutching a hatbox. He grinned devilishly.

"Hello. You must be Master Gracey," she said in a voice sounding none too sweet. He nodded. She strode in past him. "My name is Constance Hatchaway. And this is the famed Gracey Manor?" Again, he nodded, slightly put off. "Excellent. I shall be requesting residence here," she turned to him expectantly.

"Um, well, um, s-sure, I'm sure we can find a room for you, I guess…" he stammered, taken aback.

"Wonderful. Come along, Hatsworth," she said, clapping her hands briskly. The gentleman moved forward with a distinct limp. Behind him, a stack of four more hat boxes came into view.

"What are all those?" George inquired.

"Those are my _personal_ belongings, which no one is to ever touch," she barked severely. "Now, where am I to be housed?" she asked, looking around. She spied the attic stairs. "Ah, the attic will do me nicely, I think," she said, and started off towards them, Hatsworth following behind, staggering beneath the weight of the boxes.

"Wait!" George called. She halted, without turning around.

"What?" she said sharply.

"Well, it's just that, well, there's already another bride living up there," he said, fidgeting.

"Well, that won't do at all, now will it?" she said calmly, "I don't think she'd mind the guestroom," And with that continued on her way up to the peak of the house.

* * *

Emily sat, sobbing upon the bottom step of the attic stairs. George hovered around, trying to console the crying girl, but she batted him away.

"H-how could y-you do this t-to me?" she hiccupped, "How c-could you let h-her kick me out?! I'm n-nobody now! I-I don't h-have a home. I'm l-like a h-hobo!"

"No you're not, Emily! You can have another room! Look, you can have the basement! That's just like the attic, isn't it-"

"No it is not! It's completely different! I was on top! I don't want to be in the damp, smelly basement!" she wailed.

"You're absolutely right! How silly of me, that was completely ludicrous," he said hastily.

"Yes. Completely loodcris!" she sniffed.

"No, not _loodcris_, lu-di-crous. It means absurd.

"That what I said!" she snapped. He instinctively took a step away from her.

"But really, Emily, you simply cannot stay here on the stairs forever!"

"I'm not. I'm going back to the attic as soon as you get rid of that ninny!" she huffed, "Because you are," she added.

"Of course!" he replied, "Yes! Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to do. Yes. I'll get rid of her. Right,"

"Good. You can do it now," she said, wiping her face off.

"Now?" he squeaked.

"Yes, now. Go!" she said, pushing him up the stairs. He fled. "SISSY!" she screamed after him. "I'LL FIND YOU EVENTUALLY!!!!!" He gulped from inside the linen closet he was hiding in. 'Oh, I'll let Lilly deal with it' he thought…

* * *

Constance was lounging upon a chaise, popping grapes into her mouth.

"Hatsworth!" she barked. The hunchback hobbled over.

"Yes, mistress?" he wheezed.

"Go fetch me exactly forty nine pounds and seven point four ounces of muffins," she said, snapping her fingers for the little pop up ghost to fan her harder with the large palm frond he was holding.

"Yes mistress, right away," he said, then hobbled off down the stairs. Forty five minutes later, he returned, staggering under a mound of blueberry muffins. "Here you are, mistress. You muffins!" he rasped.

"Blueberry?" she sniffed with disdain, "I wanted apple cinnamon,"

"Oh," he hissed, "Sorry. I mean, my apologies, mistress. I shall go and fetch your apple cinnamon muffins now," and he shuffled away again. Another forty five minutes later, he returned, buried beneath more muffins.

"What are you doing, idiot?" she snapped, "I need you to rub lotion on my neck,"

"You told me to get you apple cinnamon muffins, mistress," he said, dropping the pastries.

"I said no such thing!" she hollered, "Now come! Lotion! Now!" he trotted over to her, starting to rub fruit scented lotion onto her neck.

"Get your hands off of me!" she screeched, slapping his hands away. He leapt back, knocking over her stack of hatboxes. They came crashing down, lid flying off of the top one. A head rolled out, and stopped at Constance's feet. She looked at Hatsworth, her face red with rage…

* * *

To be continued…


End file.
